Edith, page 14
‘We’ll have to liven things up a bit round here. All work and no play.’ Boney pinches her cheek.
Edith winces. She only attended school for one term – she had to live with a chaperone – but her friend’s behaviour is reminiscent of the schoolgirl crushes she recalls from those Dublin days at Alexandra College. ‘I hope you won’t find it too dull, Boney. There are no race meetings or shooting parties – no jollity at all, apart from social calls, and maybe a few rubbers of bridge.’ She begins to mount the stairs, forcing Boney’s arm to slip from her waist.
‘I’m here to see you, not half the county, dear heart.’
‘The thing is, Boney, we’re sitting on the lid of a seething pot.’
‘I was born in the year of the Indian Mutiny. Nothing fazes me.’
By now, they are on the first floor corridor, where a hissing sound punctuates their conversation.
‘What’s that?’ asks Boney.
‘The bathroom pipes. I’m afraid we’re having problems. Cold water’s all they can manage now – the system simply won’t heat.’
‘Plumbing is one of the myriad mysteries of this old house.You need a nice, modern place like mine. All the conveniences.’
‘Primary among them, a golf course outside your gate. Personally, I like a house that has ghosts flitting through its rooms.’ Drishane is peopled by ghosts. Edith knows her own is among them – the ghost of her girlhood.‘Here we are, Boney. This is your room.’
‘So far from you? I hoped we’d be next door to one another. Couldn’t you billet me in the room where Martin slept when she lived here? We could swap secrets in the night.’
Edith’s had the same room since childhood, a large, dim space in a wing convenient for the stables. It’s far enough from the other bedrooms to give her privacy and that’s the way she likes it – especially when there are guests.‘Martin’s room is no longer in use, I’m afraid. But she’s delighted by your visit and says to give you her best regards.’
—
Before dinner, they meet in the drawing room, made cosy by flames crackling and leaping in the grate, under an elaborately carved black oak mantelpiece. Edith has changed into a velvet dress for dinner, while Ethel Smyth’s sturdy body is resplendent in sequins – lavish for a quiet dinner à deux but then she does nothing by halves. Loulou is curled up on the hearth rug, bubbling with snores. Edith feels a twinge at the thought of how Dooley and Loulou used to lie there, bodies overlapping. Once, she’d have replaced him with another fox-terrier puppy, but she’s tired of investing her affections in dogs which reach maturity and die long before she’s ready to part with them.
At Boney’s insistence, the sherry decanter is discarded and the bottle of champagne opened. Crackling with authority, like an officer inspecting troops on the parade ground, she swarms about the room. Words machine-gun from her. She is full of her latest composition, a ballet called Fête Galante, and revisions she’s made to her opera, The Boatswain’s Mate. Then there is the woeful performance of another of her works in Hull, where the conductor was such an incompetent blockhead that she left her seat, marched to the podium and snatched the baton from his hands.
‘And what of your Irish R.M. play?’
‘I finished it today.’
Ethel Smyth’s guileless child’s smile beams upon Edith.‘Marvellous! It’ll run to packed houses in the West End.You’ll be lionized! When can I read it?’
‘I’ll read some aloud to you after dinner if you like.’
‘Do it now.’
‘You’re more impatient than the wind, Boney.There isn’t time before dinner.’
Boney refills their champagne flutes and joins Edith on the sofa.
‘To company.’ Edith clinks the rim of her glass against her guest’s.
‘To the most agreeable company in the world.’
‘Steady on, Boney.’ Edith takes a sip.‘I say, do you really think Flurry’s Wedding will go down well in London? I change my mind from one day to the next.’
‘Certainly, it will. Humour is your forte, my dear Edith, and we all need to have our ribs tickled. Especially when times are troublesome. You must come and stay with me in Hook Heath, and we’ll attend your opening night together. It’ll be a triumph. Your play will be on everyone’s lips. I’ll organize supper afterwards at The Ritz.’
They relapse into companionable silence, Edith spellbound by the flames in the grate while Boney watches her, and absentmindedly drinks from both glasses.
‘I can never decide if your eyes are grey or green, Edith dearest.’
‘That’s because they’re grey-green.’
‘Like the sea around here.Was your hair very dark as a girl?’
Self-conscious, Edith pats her pinned-up grey hair. ‘I suppose it was dark brown. Martin was fair, with hare’s eyes. Terribly short-sighted, though. She was known to shake hands with the butler at social gatherings.’ Boney hoots with laughter. ‘She was delicate-looking, not rugged like me,’ adds Edith.
‘I expect she was most awfully clever. But you aren’t rugged.You’re magnificent.’
‘I’m like the Wreck of the Hesperus, you silly thing.’
‘I bet you couldn’t keep your hair up when you went out riding. I expect you flew over every impossible ditch and somehow kept your seat, but your hairpins went flying. I can just see that mass of dark locks tumbling round your shoulders. And you, laughing and pink-cheeked, too caught up in the thrill of the chase to stop. Absolutely superb – you don’t know how to be anything else. A goddess in human form!’
Edith stares. Clears her throat. The fire crackles. A bong sounds.
Edith is on her feet in an instant. ‘There’s the dinner gong.’ Loulou stirs and stretches. ‘Yes, you greedy guts, nothing wrong with your hearing. We have some lovely brown trout for you, Boney. Mrs O’Shea cooked it in almonds, just the way you like it.’
En route to the dining room, Edith wonders if she can rustle up another house guest to dilute Ethel Smyth’s Ethelness. She’s always been exuberant, but it’s getting out of hand. A week of her is going to prove trying.
Just inside the dining-room door hangs a set of still lifes, all dead creatures: oils of pheasants, lobsters and so on. Ethel Smyth pauses to study them.
‘None of these had a happy end. Not yours, Edith. I can tell.Your use of colour has more brio.We must organize another exhibition for you.’
‘Sargent always ripped up a drawing and started over if he didn’t like it and I’m exactly the same. It’s the first impression that matters. Paint quickly to keep it fresh. Never tinker. That’s my motto. Why don’t you take this place?’
In a clean, white cap with a pleated frill, hands folded in front of her, Philomena waits by the soup tureen. Edith is proud of her for making an effort. If it wasn’t for the hanks of hair escaping from under the cap, Philomena would be as well turned out as any English servant.
‘Good evening, Philomena,’ says Boney. ‘How have you been?’
‘The Lord look down on me in pity this day. Me legs are at me since breakfast. Now, Mrs O’Shea has made you a nice creamy parsnip broth, Miss Smyth, on account of you complimenting her on it the last time you were here.’ She begins serving.
‘Doctor Smyth,’ Edith corrects her, before Boney complains. ‘And I believe I ordered chicken soup, Philomena.’
‘Dr Smyth, to be sure,’ says Philomena. ‘I do be forgetting. Mrs O’Shea was run off her feet today and hadn’t the time to kill and pluck a hen. I was busy myself, supervising that Treacy girl. If you didn’t stand over her, she’d be away like a wild goose, galloping the country.’
‘Thank you, that will be all for now, Philomena.You might see to the drawing-room fire before bringing in the next course – we’ll go back in after we dine.’
Philomena sniffs and leaves the room.
‘Unfortunately, we can’t get coal from Wales any more, Boney. We have to rely on wood or turf.’
Boney scatters crumbs in a dismissive gesture with the hand holding a bread roll. ‘I don’t know how you manage in this disaster of a country.’
‘We grind along as best we can. Besides, I prefer the smell of wood in a fireplace.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I said there’s something about the smell of burning wood.’ Was Boney more deaf than the last time they met? Edith finds herself obliged to repeat things.
‘Coal is more efficient,’ insists Boney.
‘My dear, Ireland has other attractions besides efficiency. How is your soup?’
‘Delicious.You know, there’s something I’ve noticed about you.’
‘Go on.’
‘You let the servants ride over you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You do. It’s being going on forever, so you don’t even notice.’
‘Mrs O’Shea has a fondness for the hen I ordered her to kill. That’s why we aren’t having chicken soup. It’s a pet of hers, you might say.’
‘Which proves my point.’
‘Your point being?’
‘They lie. They can’t help it, and you go along with it.’
‘It isn’t lying exactly.’
‘What else would you call it?’
‘It’s how it is here. That’s all.’
‘Lying.’
‘Embroidery.’
‘Lying.
‘They never give the same excuse twice. I enjoy their inventiveness.’
‘You know what the matter with you is?’
‘I’ve a feeling you’re about to tell me.’
‘You’ve a blind spot about the Irish.’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I’m Irish.’
‘There’s no doubting that.’
‘Now you be careful before you say another word.’
‘I always speak the truth.’
‘Well, here’s a truth for you.Wasn’t your grandfather Smyth Irish?’
‘I don’t deny it. Permanently pickled and couldn’t stop talking. What else would he be but one of your lot?’
‘Really, Boney, must you give voice to every thought that crosses your mind? Mama taught us that good manners are an essential shell. Didn’t yours teach you the same?’
‘Mama was too busy finding fault with everything I did. Papa dined out as often as possible.’ Ethel Smyth butters another bread roll.‘She was awfully good at petit point, though.’
A withering mama softens Edith, who had her own experience in that department. ‘I was never any use at sewing. Hated being cooped up indoors.’
‘Your hands are too large. Beautiful and large, I should say. It’s what allows you to handle horses. Mama was a sprite. If she attempted to lift a footstool, Papa would rush to do it for her. Mama had all sorts of rules about dress and behaviour. Clothes being matched to eyes indoors, and hair outdoors. Stockings coordinated with shoes, and so on.’
After Philomena has served the main course, Ethel Smyth says,‘Dear heart, I want you to stay with me after Christmas.’
‘I don’t think I can, Boney. I need to be here to hold the place together.
Empty houses are an invitation.’
‘But you must come. Some important news is going to be revealed on New Year’s Eve and I’d like you there to share it. I expect my friends will organize a dinner to mark the occasion.’
‘What news?’
‘I’m honour-bound to keep it secret—’ ‘Well then of course you mustn’t—’
‘—But it will be gazetted on the 31st of December. It really is most awfully thrilling. Quite an honour. In fact, a victory! Not just for me but womanhood. Can’t you guess from the date?’
‘I’m afraid not. I was never any good at guessing games.’
Boney’s blue eyes are bulbous in their sockets. ‘I know you won’t breathe a word to a soul. I’m to be cited in the King’s NewYear’s Honours List. Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire. I’m the first female composer to receive a damehood!’
‘What wonderful news! Dame Ethel Smyth no less!’ Edith goes to her friend, pressing her pink-and-white cheek against the other’s ruddy skin. ‘I couldn’t be happier for you.’
‘It’s in recognition of my genius as a composer. Long overdue, if I say so myself.’
‘Ethel the Great. Step aside, Alexander.’
Boney’s hand reaches for Edith’s, braiding fingers with her. ‘And I didn’t have the benefit of Aristotle as my tutor, like Alexander. All I had was prejudiced male reviewers complaining my work was either too womanly or not womanly enough.’
‘You’ve shown them all, Dame Ethel, as I shall have to remember to call you.You’ve hurdled every obstacle.’ Edith manages to untangle her hand and returns to her seat.
‘I must speak to HenryWood about including more of my work in his promenade concerts. In fact, he should dedicate an entire programme to me. My Mass in D is long overdue a revival. The Hosanna always brings down the house – the trumpet solo is a triumph. And the Gloria utterly splendid.’
Edith casts her mind back to the Mass performance she attended. Her impression was of the Almighty being commanded rather than implored to show mercy. It was positively Wagnerian. But after all, Boney is a female version, teeming with Sturm und Drang.
‘And to think there was a time when I couldn’t cadge an invitation to a Buckingham Palace garden party.Will you come to Hook Heath, Edith, and be with me when the announcement is made?’
‘I couldn’t possibly, dearest. Too short notice, I’m afraid.’
‘But I insist on having you with me. It won’t taste as sweet without you by my side.’
‘I’m thrilled for you, truly I am, but I simply can’t.’
Boney wags a forefinger. ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘You must, I’m afraid.’
‘I give you fair warning. I shall lay siege to you.’
‘Later in January is possible. Perhaps coinciding with the investiture? You’ll need the support of a friend then, too.’
Boney taps a forefinger against her lips. ‘You have a point.’
She begins talking about dates, while Edith drifts among her own thoughts. How nice if she was made a dame. But Irish people aren’t exactly popular in England currently. She might have risen higher if she had based herself in London, embedding herself in its literary circles, but Castletownshend is her centre of gravity. She is jolted back to attention by Boney reaching across the table to tap her on the wrist.
‘See, here, Edith, you’re turning into a hermit crab. You can’t take root in Drishane – we should plan another excursion abroad.’
‘I like my routine. I’m a countrywoman at heart.’
‘I need to be in the thick of things. I crave variety. It’s stimulating.’
‘Trips are stimulating, naturally, but the truth is I can’t afford one right now.’
‘Even with all your irons in the fire? Art, literature, journalism, farming, horsecoping? Am I leaving something out, you talented creature?’
‘We can’t sell our farm produce, and our horses are stolen from under our noses. Any money I make from Flurry’s Wedding will have to go on fixing the roof – although the roofer says he’d have more luck plugging a bog pool.You’re lucky it hasn’t rained today or you’d hear an orchestra of drips.’
Boney jumps up and conducts an imaginary orchestra.
‘But I’ll visit you in Hook Heath as soon as possible,’ continues Edith. ‘I do have some business in London, as it happens. I really should speak to Mr Pinker in person about placing Flurry’s Wedding.’
‘He’s lacking in theatrical contacts. You mustn’t throw away your opus on that jumped-up little money-grubber.’
‘Sometimes, I wonder if Martin and I would have written any of our Irish R.M. books without his nagging.’
‘Mr Pinker has had his pound of flesh— ’
‘Ten per cent, dear.’
‘Daylight robbery! For work that sells itself! Under no circumstances must you entrust Flurry’s Wedding to this bloodsucking little tick of a man.’
Secretly, Edith resents that commission. Mr Pinker oughtn’t to keep deducting his penny-pinching percentage year after year. She knows it’s in his contract. But really, it’s ungentlemanly to continue chipping away at her earnings simply because he struck a number of bargains for her with publishers years ago, deals she was perfectly capable of negotiating herself – she’s always been able to paddle her own canoe in business. Boney’s full-frontal attack delights her.
But she says, ‘That’s a little harsh on Mr Pinker, Boney. We’ve had a business relationship for decades. His judgment has proven sound on many occasions. I admit, he’s losing his touch and those sons aren’t in his league, but cutting him out would be a wrench. We’ve hunted together. He’s bought horses from me.’
‘I expect he took up riding especially to wheedle into your good books. Bear in mind this is business, not friendship, with Mr Pinker.You mustn’t confuse the two. The literary firm of Somerville and Ross has been profitable for him – the R.M. series alone must have been a money spinner.’
‘I suppose. Frankly, I may have to consider severing ties. I can’t really afford his commission any longer.’
‘Well then, why pay it, Edith?’
‘And he could certainly use a little ginger. I wonder if he’s quite well? Perhaps I should try and place the play by other means. I’ll give it some thought. But wait until you’ve heard me read from it after coffee. You might think it’s absolute tosh and twaddle.’
‘I shan’t, you darling simpleton. I shall think it utterly brilliant, like everything you write.’
eleven
Ethel Smyth is gazing, rapt, at Edith’s face while she reads from the play. She is free to look with intensity because Edith, who has a talent for accent, is engrossed in acting out each character’s role. They have reached the point where Flurry is about to abscond with Sally, aided and abetted by his accomplice Slipper. Sally’s mama Lady Knox is horrified, but Flurry’s grandmother Mrs Knox is delighted – anything that puts Lady Knox’s nose out of joint wins her approval.
‘Slipper yells to Yeates, “Twas yerself called for‘Haste to theWeddin’, long life to ye!” Old Mrs Knox hurries down steps and has an old shoe and rice. Lady Knox dashes back round house.They meet! Curtain. End of scene three.’
